In The End
by MrsRoy
Summary: In the end ... You have to decide whether you stay or you go. In the end, what really matters? Chlark AU, post Tomb.  S5  After losing his father, Clark is lost. When he and Chloe cross the line between friends and lovers, everything changes.
1. Prologue

**I don't own them. I just share.**

**A one-shot for now. Just putting it out for feelers. Could become the prologue for a longer WIP.**

**Please feel free to let me know what you think.  
**

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She's going to tell him today, finally tell him that she's leaving the old Kent farm, leaving him to decide whether he is working or playing.

To her, he's always doing both.

She's tried to do it before, tried so hard to leave his side, but then he comes to her in the dead of the night, and a firestorm sweeps over her body as his cold fingers burn from the inside to out. His tongue strikes her like a match, trailing a sense of cynicism, because she knows that he knows, and he'll try to coax all he can from her being.

She has lusted after him for so long now, she doesn't even notice when he falls into her bed, fallen by ambition and blood, like diamonds cut with their own dust.

Once upon a time, she'd thought that true love would never die. Now, it seems to have faded.

But his hands graze the underside of her breast, and his lips close around it and she's heady with arousal, and the fact that he can smell it means that she's a goner. It only serves to spur him on.

And he touches her, thick fingers digging into the flesh of her hip, and she knows he'll leave bruises, but she likes it that way, another memoir to keep her focused, his mark, _his. _

Everything makes sense.

He nestles himself at the base of her curls, and she's anxious, she wants to reach out to him, to fill him with meaning. Reason is the natural order of truth, even he is not eternal.

She trembles against him as he thrusts, his size affirming his strength because she can feel him nudge at the neck of her cervix and she's under no illusion. And he moans her name, it's barely audible, but she can hear it tumble from his tongue, a litany of vowels and consonants, he believes in her.

But she sits here, on the edge of her bed, he calls it _their_ bed now, it's expected of her. Or perhaps, she just closes her mind against the knowledge that he's probably shared it with others, that it's probably tainted now, and that he himself can't stand to look at it.

She packed her bag weeks ago, stashed it in the back of her closet, and hoped that his x-ray vision would not alert him.

She will leave here holding her head high, holding within her hand, the greatest element of success, pride within herself. She's no longer afraid of her baron beginnings, she's a fighter. Clark has always told her that.

He watches her, always watching his Chloe. He's destroyed her soul with his negligence and his sensibility suffers. Between the covers she is sacred, but even then he is taking her for granted. A livid flower had prospered, trying to reach the sun. Now her petals wilt, and the unbearable stench of decay is his consolation. The harm he sustains, he carries with him. He suffers by his own fault.

_The last son of Krypton._

He can't bear to lose her.

But his life is a cycle, meetings, departures, friends discovered and lost, precious time and broken memories of a happy yesteryear.

He's never been good at goodbye.

He knows that he's content with the shadow, that she could be, and would be his bright guiding light. But change is certain and it should not constitute occasion for sadness, not when the interim is his happiness.

They will go their ways. Her to die, he to live. Which one is better? He's been asking himself since the dawn of deliverance. Myths have always condemned those who look back. So he runs. He runs and he runs, stirring a storm of revolution. He has yellow sunshine at his disposal, though the roads are dusty, and the miles test his imagination, he'll always find tables of plenty and the progress of preservation.

She herself relies on the beauty of independence, despite their origins, the similarities outweigh the differences. She relies on herself, and he has always been lonely.

She fiddles with the hem of her sweater, she's taken to wearing them lately, says that they keep her warm when she can't shake the chill from her bones. She's nervous; he can hear her heart beating, she's far from excited.

He hopes that his father will forgive him.

He won't see her off; he knows she'll be back. She knows not what she carries with her.

In the end, the Universe has a purpose, though they might remain strange to one another, two friends, two lovers, attracted by the virtue of affinity, they have always been compatible.


	2. Action Reaction

**I don't own them, I just share.**

**Au post Tomb. **

**Thanks for the encouragement. The reviews mean a lot.  
**

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Clark Kent couldn't save his father. His tombstone sits cold in the Smallville Cemetery, marking his final resting place, from the cradle to the grave where he lies. There had been no hope; Clark had been committed to action, actually doing something rather than being trapped by a series of events.

The nip of frigid granite is harsh, but Clark feels nothing as he brushes his forehand across the top of the monument and fingers the inscription one last time.

_Beloved Husband and Father._

Clark cannot contain his inward calm, so he comes here to replenish his strength, honoring the worthy because he believes in the power of the spirit, his father would tell him - _Fifty times the staying power of brawn and muscle, son._

Clark knows that love feels no burden.

"I'll save her, Dad. I'll protect her from Lex."

He hadn't known what to say when Lois had told him. Suicide is for those attempting to run from themselves, a choice, to end a life of worthlessness. But Chloe has so much to live for. The very notion is completely out of the question.

At the hospital, he'd drawn upon his courage; resolve of a determined soul had kept him going in spite of the clutch that she bore on his heart. She'd looked so fragile, like a tiny paper doll in the palm of his hand, barefoot and disheveled.

His fingers had curled into fists and his heart thundered beneath his ribcage and he'd concealed the things that his heart had been longing to say. He was scared to death.

Once upon a time, he'd kneeled by Lana's body with her blood on his hands and the bitter taste of death in his mouth. Now he kneels before his father, trying to make sense of his life, who he is, where he's gong, what he wants to be, and Chloe.

She's his savior, a friend who knows all about him, who lies next to him in the cornfields and listens. He finds his tomorrow in Chloe, and though he'll never admit it, he's sure she has the most luscious set of womanly hips.

Clark shakes his head and stands up straight. He won't have Chloe locked away, at Luther's disposal, like some kind of freak for him to get his hands on. He will free her of such prison, he will rip through her restraints with ease, and he will rid her of evil and these four walls will tumble.

He has to hurry, because if Lex manages to have Chloe transferred to Belle Reve, there will be trouble, the staff will know fury. You don't dip your hand into another man's pot without repercussions.

Clark looks at his watch again, and in his mind he counts down the seconds as he ought to, he keeps a tally of the time that passes before he can enter the sanatorium again, and the hallowed halls that echo through the entire day.

While Lex is initiating contact with his associates, Clark plans to take what is rightfully his, he's going to steal the night and bring herald forth to the burgeoning day.

The tempered strike of each golden hand on Clark's watch face is loud, another minute ticks over and he stands alone amongst those who are lost, because love knows no limit to its endurance, and everything seems to be coming up Clark.

Finally, he smiles. "I've got to go, Dad. I'll see you later."

He swears that as he hustles his momentum, that he can hear a voice trailing on the flurry of updraft that stirs in his wake.

"_Go get her son, she's all that you've got."_

_

* * *

_

"Chloe," He whispers, though she's heavily drugged and barely lucid.

"Clark?" She'd know his voice anywhere, a familiar tone that warms her heart, and she blinks, trying to focus her gaze.

"Shh, it's okay. I'm going to get you out of here."

Chloe rests her head upon the pillow and the corners of her lips turn up into a genuine smile because it's really him, and he's really her and he's going to save her, her champion among men.

"Mmm," She drawls, "You believe me. You know that I'm not crazy."

Clark pries the snug buckle from the leather with little effort and thumbs the pale, supple skin of her wrist, turning it in his hand before he glances back at Chloe.

"I won't let Lex take you away. I won't let that happen."

Clark hauls her into his arms, there's nothing graceful about the way that he moves, and it's awkward, because she's not herself and she feels like dead weight in his embrace, and he curses in the silence of his overwhelming wrath.

Chloe rests her head against his solid shoulder and sighs, closing her eyes against the world. "You're my hero, Clark."

Perhaps Jor-El was right; maybe his human emotions do get the better of him because right now, it's hard to hear his pride over the clarity of joy that rumors in his ear.

His grip tightens and he holds her against his chest and he has to condition his body because pleasure soars through each nerve ending and he wants to touch her. This is not logical, it's purely mind over matter. How had he never seen what her eyes had beheld before now?

"Don't worry Chloe, I've got you. You're safe now."

* * *

Lois is pacing backwards and forwards, with nervous hands clasped in front of her.

"Why the hell would you do that?" She asks Clark, indignantly. "This is the first place that Lex will look, how do you expect me to hide her?"

"Do you have a better idea?" He watches Chloe as she sits on the end of the bed, there's a lump in his throat and he has to swallow around it because he thinks about her mother and it frightens him. He needs her.

"How am I going to explain the wall or the fact that there's a body behind the wall cavity?" Lois counters.

"Call the sheriff; I've already tried, so try again, Lois. Use your charm, or something."

"She should have stayed at the hospital."

Clark knows that a good plan is like a road map, it cannot be changed. This is one exchange that Clark intends to bag, because Lana is his rival now. Their relationship is damaged, like a poison that taints pleasant relations, because the minute his back had been turned the metaphorical dagger was nestled neatly between his shoulder blades.

He seethes knowing that she was the one who put Lex up to this.

"I'm taking her back to the farm."

Lois can't believe the gal of him, and she wonders what Chloe sees, what Chloe has ever seen in the likes of Clark Kent. He's selfish and abhorrent and if she didn't know better, she might think that there was a gleam in his eye, a rush of energized matter every time he mumbled her dear cousin's name.

"Fine," Lois relents, because there's too much at stake. "But do you think you could try not to do anything else stupid?"

"You guys," Chloe interrupts, picking at the bandages that embellish her wrists and draw attention to her current circumstances. "Do you think I could get a cappuccino before we go anywhere?"

Clark rolls his eyes because he can't think of anything as inappropriate as stopping for coffee when essentially, you're on the run and Lois snorts knowing that Clark has got his hands full with this one.

"I'll go downstairs and make you a double."

"Better make that to go," Clark adds dutifully, hurrying Lois along like a conductor, punctuating the gesture.

Clark squats at Chloe's feet and smiles. He feels extrinsically vulnerable, like his chest is a gaping chasm and she's all inside and she's messing him up. She penetrates his suit of armor and he feels like just another stupid person letting his defenses down.

"Hi," He mumbles as if it's the most obvious thing in the world to say.

"Hi," She manages back.

"Chloe, I'm going to get you out of here, I'll make sure you're okay. We'll get through this like we always do."

He aches to touch her, to run the pads of his fingers over her bare arms, to feel her breasts pressed against his expanse of chest, to have her legs wrapped around his waist.

Clark silently chastises himself. Nothing has been resolved with Lana and he knows that for every promise, there is a price to pay.

"I trust you, Clark."

Her trust breaks the untouchable. That's the beauty of the human kind. It takes years to build, mere seconds to destroy. He owes her a terrible loyalty. She is the absolute principle of self-sacrifice and she will not suffer alone.

He doesn't think Lois will mind that they're gone when she returns, and as soon as the thought enters his mind, Clark is laying Chloe upon his bed, his blanket tucked up under her chin and he climbs in next to her, caressing her body, the smooth skin of her belly scorching his palms like Kryptonite weakens him.

He knows the difference between right and wrong and though he may not be human, he still lives in mans image.

"Clark?" Chloe whispers hoarsely.

"Shh," He soothes her, breathing into her neck. He exhales harshly and wraps his fingers around the locks of her champagne-fair hair, he pants raggedly. "It's going to be fine. I'll make it better."


	3. Punch Drunk Love

**I don't own them. I just share.**

**I know that a lot of Chlark shippers have lost the will to breath of late, it's grossly unfair, and I sympathise. But I thought I would continue on with this story because Chlark are awesome, and we need more Chlark in our always make me smile.**

**Enjoy.  
**

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Clark's free hand skims the scratchy fabric of her sweats. Soft, even strokes like a man of measure. His thick, fleshy fingers twitch as they rest upon the elastic waistband of Chloe's pants. An opportunity in the midst of a crisis, he's well aware of the dangers, but his mouth is dry, and he's overly parched, and he just wants to wet his lips with this sweet feast of nectar.

His nostrils flare, aroused by that familiar scent, the essence of sin that pervades his being and makes a mockery of his self control, the terrible accusation wanting to fix the responsibility and blame squarely upon his widespread shoulders. His hand trembles, the closer he inches.

As the pads of his fingers sweep across the yielding skin of Chloe's belly, Clark seems to acknowledge that there's a great margin for error, that no matter how fast he runs, he'll never be able to escape the consequences of his choice.

He retracts his hand as though he's been burned and looks at the woman who's spread out before him. It's a curious sensation, like sorrow, carved into his being.

Clark gasps, infusing his lungs with sharply drawn breath as he inhales. What the hell is he thinking? This is Chloe, his best friend. _Who has always loved you,_ his conscience reminds him.

He shakes his head and scrubs his hand across his face. He can't reconcile this feeling inside, that his father is gone and there's nobody at his side. The very purpose of existence he holds for himself seems lost to a weak mind.

Chloe moans and Clark is quick to react.

"Chloe, can you hear me?"

"Mmm," Her mouth is dry, but she rasps out her sentence. "Clark? Where are we? What's going on?"

"Chloe, it's you." Clark beams,

"Were you expecting someone else?"

"No." He furrows his brow, deep in thought, contemplating an explanation for the scenario he'd found himself in. He'd saved her from unquestionable fate, albeit, the mischief of her vice, her craving for a taste of the ambiguous. He'd left Lois with a gaping quandary and a breezy draft for her efforts.

"She's gone, Clark. It's just me now." Chloe offers a tight smile before deflecting her gaze and picking at the hem of her shirt.

Clark allows instinct to guide the awkward conversation.

"Chloe, what's wrong?"

Chloe exhales a sigh. "She suffered so much at the hands of that man." _And I know how that feels, _she doesn't add. "There was a moment," She continues, "When I honestly thought that I might have been crazy, that ... that I was just like my mother, Clark. I guess it just made me realise how much I miss her."

Clark understands. He understands because Jonathan Kent was so much more than a middling farm keep who took chose to take in a seemingly vulnerable child. Jonathan Kent was a father who taught. Who taught Clark to forgive an opponent, to tolerate, to respect, to love without restraint. He'd grown into the role and he'd been ridiculously proud. He'd lived to watch Clark accept his mistakes and create his own destiny.

Clark's father had shaped his thoughts into actions, and was wholly prepared to gather the fragments that would tumble by the wayside.

Clark lowers his face, so ashamed of the reality that destroyed his father and claimed his life.

"I haven't always made good choices, not where my family was concerned. But I'd give it all up for another chance with Dad. He always knew what to say," Clark stutters through his sentence, trying to make some sense, any sense, of his words.

"Clark," Chloe cut him off, "Clark, it wasn't your fault."

"And you're not your mother," He whispers, ensconced in his own loose parallel, struggling with his conscious choice and consequences.

An awkward silence thunders between them like heavy footsteps. Their regrets hang in the air, suspended above like a memory that passes, frame by frame.

There is no luxury, in self reproach.

"Your father was a good man, Clark. You get a lot of that from him."

Not so long ago, Clark would have believed her. But the world changes and nothing ever stays the same. Somewhere along the way, Clark lost his faith and simply drifted away.

Chloe clears her throat before she asks her next question. If Clark notices the way that her fingers shake and her heart rate inclines, he doesn't dare speak out of turn.

"Have you spoken to Lana?"

She watches his face crumple as each syllable springs from the tip of her tongue, like waking from a daydream and ambling into a nightmare. Images and sensations, a kaleidoscope of torment etching detail across his soul like an inspired disaster.

"No. I haven't. I wouldn't even know what to say to her."

Chloe pulls herself into a sitting position with Clark's assistance, and draws her knees into her chest as she rests against the headboard.

"Just tell her how you feel," She shrugs. "We all know how you feel about her."

Though it pains her to admit, Chloe had accepted Clarks reasoning a long time ago. Her subconscious has acknowledged the worst and made peace with the fallout. Green is definitely not Chloe's color. She is his confidante, he respects her, and in his own way, he does love her. She wears that badge upon her heart.

"The truth?" Clark scoffs, scrubbing his hand across his face. "You think I should tell her that I made a mistake? That I want my father back? That if I could, I'd ask Jor-El to reverse my decision and bring him back? That's not really my style, Chlo."

"You never had a problem when it came to hurting me."

A pang of guilt overcomes him. It makes his heart ache. He's been ignorant for too long.

Chloe has always been that safe harbor that lives and breathes inside of him. He's never questioned it, it simply exists. And though he had pined for the touch of another, he is yet to truly realize that his joy, this sense of contentment that fills him, has something to do with Chloe.

"You are the one person I always tried to protect, Chloe. So why do I end up hurting you?"

"Clark, you possess so many traits that ensure your humanity. But we both know that's not really who you are. You will always be Kal-El of Krypton. You can't deny your origins."

Clark throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands, stalking across the room towards the window. He leans upon the timber sill, his eyes trained upon a lone sparrow that seems to glide without a care in the world. If only life was like a throwaway line.

"You saw what Kal was like, how rude he was. That's not me, that's not who Jonathan Kent raised me to be."

"But it's who Jonathan Kent loved. He loved his son."

"I need him," Clark whispers quietly. "I need him," He says again, slamming his balled fist into the polished grain, stepping back as the dainty ledge is ripped from its core, as the window pane trembles and shatters and it's only a split second reaction that allows him to cover Chloe's body with his own as the glass fragments litter the floor.

Her back is pressed firmly against his chest; her heart hammering through her ribcage feels like he's living vicariously through her. He doesn't dare let go.

"Damn it," Chloe hisses as Clark shifts behind her.

"Chloe?" It's his turn to churn out a staccato beat as he waits for confirmation that she's been hit.

"My leg. It's my leg, Clark."

Crimson lifeblood stains the pale blue cotton sheets, but the wound is superficial, worse than it looks. Chloe has always been a bleeder.

"Chloe, you're bleeding. "

"Brilliant observation, Clark, you'll make a fine reporter. Now do you think you could help me, please?"

Chloe is met with silence, then the dynamic spontaneity that accompanies his departure, like a vague breeze flitting amongst the flowers, and then he's back again, standing beside the bed with the first aid kit in his outstretched hand.

"I'm really sorry, Chlo," He mumbles, flicking the clasp of his proffered goods and juggling the iodine like a side-show act.

"You're lucky, it's not so deep," He assures her, pressing a damp cotton ball to her skin with the caress of a lover.

Chloe chews her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth, but Clark can see the unshed tears that shine in her eyes. He inhales to fill his lungs to capacity, and then dips his head, exhaling his frigid breath across the surface of her supple skin. Chloe's limbs prickle and her spine separates from her body as she folds into oblivion.

Clark watches the scene unfold before his eyes, not quite willing to accept that this is happening, that this is how she responds to his touch, but the proof is tangible, she's shaking beneath his touch. Shaking, and keening. Chloe is here, in his bed, bleeding and moaning, and gripping his thigh while she rides out her climax.

Clark is speechless. It's all he can do not to push up the hem of her tee and take her heaving breast into the palm of his hand. So he watches, and he waits, drinking in the sight of her body, committing to memory the way she responds, the way that she moves. His mind conjures the sight of her writhing below him, and he's drunk on love and longing.

A drunk man's world, a sober mans thoughts.


	4. Make A Memory

**I don't own them. I just share. **

**Bringing back Chlark!  
**

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As Chloe's murmurs fill the air like a litany of prayer, Clark's eyes begin to burn. Man cannot live on bread alone, and despite the fact that he's not of this Earth, he's fairly sure that he's definitely, all man.

He blinks several times, trying to control his arousal. His control waning, his peripheral vision combusting, the result of spontaneous lust committed within his heart. The most intense necessity nips at his heals, and he needs to throw her against the bedroom wall and fuck her. He needs to count the freckles that he can't see, he needs to lick her from head to toe, the salt of her sweat redeeming his hunger.

He moves with stealth, proceeding with abandon as he hovers over her still clothed body.

Chloe opens her eyes and Clark's mouth descends upon hers, their lips engaging in splendid torture as his tongue strokes hers, tickling the inside of her cheek.

The thick pads of his fingertips caress the silken skin of her bare belly as he brushes past the waistband of her sweats and her hips buck involuntarily. His hand passes the inside of her knee, her thigh, traveling across the length of her taut body as he removes her shirt and grazes the underside of her breast with his thumb.

Chloe shivers as Clark meanders about her clavicle. She draws up her knees to cradle Clark between her thighs and throws her head back as his tongue traces the length of the arc between her shoulder and the nape of her neck.

He responds to her moans, the syllables of his name curling around her tongue as he snatches her body with a rough hitch and crushes her against the rugged plain of his solid chest. She begs for more and the bed springs creak and shudder beneath the fluent weight of Clark's agile body.

"Clark," Chloe cries, and there's no hint of confusion in the way that she urges. It's not a question.

Clark is eager; he's greedy and hankering for a taste of sheer perfection, voracious in his pursuit of the ultimate pleasure. He tears the cloth from his body. Scratchy denim and woven cotton ripped with broad hands, shreds and buttons torn from the seams.

He cocks his head to the side, narrows his stare and tries to concentrate his energies on reading her appearance. He grips the cuff of the pants that engulf her prone form and he trembles violently, his nostrils flaring as he tugs on the cheap fabric to liberate Chloe's aching limbs.

He pushes her boy leg panties to the side and slides his fingers up through her slick folds, watching her through hooded lashes as he alternates his fingers and thumb to rid her of the useless accessory.

Chloe's braces her hands in Clark's hair, grasping the thick, glossy locks of ebony as he circles her clit with the pad of his thumb.

He contemplates her reaction, and likes the way that she gnaws on her bottom lip. He can smell the blood that congeals when she breaks the skin, each one of his senses heightened and aroused. The instinct for self preservation kicks in, and as the last of his kind he must act on impulses fueled by the rays of the golden sunlight.

He grips the supple flesh of her thighs, his fingers stinging, it causes Chloe to hiss and gasp as he opens her up to him. He bares her to his gaze and licks his lips, his erection pushing against his belly, the head of his cock already weeping with beads of moisture.

Chloe bucks her hips, desperate to have Clark fill her very wet, very warm and accommodating body. She angles her pelvis and flicks her waist up, trying to catch Clark in a moment of weakness.

Clark thrusts forward and strikes the inside of her thigh, pulling back and aligning himself properly, he sinks into her, burying himself inside of Chloe.

His touch lingers. Her touch scalds.

Clark rocks his hips, his thrusts are slow and deep and she can feel the full force of him as he nudges the neck of her cervix over, and over again, pushing his body to the very edge, faster and harder with every flourish.

Chloe's hands slip from Clark's hair; her arms gripping his shoulder, marring his skin if that were at all possible. Her nimble fingers dig at his flesh, trying as she seeks more and more friction, meeting Clark blow for blow. Her body aches, and she feels like she's being crushed, like some intangible force compounds her chest and though she can see the surface of the water that dances like diamonds above her, she just can't manage to fill her lungs with the breath that she needs.

She gathers the stray hair that sticks to Clark's forehead so that he can see her face, her deep eyes pleading for breathing space.

Clark ceases all movement, and grits his teeth, his jaw clamped tightly as Chloe contracts around him. And his body spasms and his heat seeps into her bones as he offers himself and the promise of future.

Chloe gasps rather audibly and the heartbreaking sound echoes through Clark's extrasensory auditory canal and stirs him from his musings.

Clark inhales, curbing the flow of his lifeblood, coaching, coaxing as he steadies his breath for her to imitate the animated respiration.

She pants in short bursts, trying to take in as much air as she can.

"Good, that's good, Chloe." Clark's voice settles over her, offering an avenue of concentration as she struggles to maintain synchronicity. He grips her wrists with his fingers and lifts her hands so that her sweaty palms lay flush against the burnished apples of his cheeks.

"Look at me, Chloe. Look up here at my face."

Chloe trains her focus upon Clark. He commands her complete attention. And when he finally realizes the anguish that clouds her fragile features, Clark assumes that she's thinking the same thing as he, that they made a grave mistake and that in this one startling moment of peace and reckoning they have screwed up everything.

"Too soon, it was too soon," He shakes his head.

Chloe strokes Clark's cheek with the pad of her thumb as her hands continue to cradle his face. A small gesture of comfort that speaks for itself, that forces Clark to evaluate his options and the impossible implications.

Chloe has needs; and she deserves a life of balance, of family and faith, factors that Clark should have taken into consideration, thoughts and actions that he can't provide that he'll never be able to give her.

To experience such a degree of pleasure, such feelings of intensity is human nature. Clark has limitations, expectations. He's separated from the rest of the world by an optical illusion, a prison that restricts his personal desires. There is no foreseeable future for them. There is no embracing his destiny.

This is a lesson, a test of will, a bitter experience laced with the sours of defeat.

Goodbye will always hurt.

Words will never renounce emotions.

Clark turns his head and strains his neck. He can hear the rumble of the farm truck as his mother returns from town. The grind and crunch of gravel beneath the tyre tread echoes and the strains of Martha's hummed lullaby wrap themselves around his soul and he knows that he's not ready to deal with the inevitable confrontation.

He draws Chloe up into the circle of his arms and places his still warm lips against her forehead. Kissing her temple, he tucks the crumpled bed sheet around her bare body and backs out of the room before she can object.

When Chloe opens her eyes again, she's back to where she started, in Lois' Talon apartment. She sits against the back of the sofa with her knees drawn up under her chin and Lois standing over her, wondering how the hell she got here.

With his jeans barely fastened and sitting on his hips, Clark leans back against the door and listens to the cousin's roar.

"Why are you wearing a sheet? Is this some kind of crazy joke? I thought you were fixed. What does this have to do with Smallville? You can't even try to convince me that he's not involved in some way, shape or form. God, are you okay?" Lois runs the gauntlet.

The questions are simple, the answers are complicated.

"Are you hurt? Where are your clothes?

The interrogation continues and Clark sighs, pushing himself off the wall and making his way out into the world. He needs isolation, time to think, to ask himself the big questions. He needs time to grieve, to lick his wounds and look back over his past. Clark needs time to close the gaping hole in his heart, but it's hard to heal when the two halves refuse to knit together.

His sins dwell within; another love has been displaced, aggravating his loss. So Clark summons up memories of times past and locks them deep within the storehouse of his being.

When he returns, Clark Kent will not exist.


	5. My Mistakes

**I don't own them. I just share.**

**We need more Chlark in this world. Hope you enjoy this chapter. I know not many people are reading, but I'm still going, doing it for Chlark!**

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Clark wonders what the hell had ever possessed him to pillage his best friend with such a clear conscience. No resistance, no illusions.

He'd plundered her soft body and intoxicated himself with sensory pleasures. He had remained unguarded, destroyed her virtue and taken like a thief, leaving her with nothing more than little dignity and fractured emotional attachment.

He hadn't even protected her. Against himself, against the onslaught of any possible pregnancy. Clark had failed Chloe and crushed her body in the process.

He paces the length of the old timber loft, still sans shirt. The images of Chloe's rigid body beneath him as she struggles to oxygenate her system refuse to abscond from his restless mind and his feet seem haste of their own accord.

Only hours before, she'd survived such an emotional ordeal, a sadistic search for the Holy Grail. She'd posed as a servant, a vessel for hatred, corrosive, so far removed from her very own nature.

Clark shakes his head. He knows now that he should have waited, Chloe needed time to recover before his body could so intimately unite with hers.

He clamps his eyes shut.

His impulse voices had been too loud, they were making a point, and her flesh had welcomed the impervious intrusion. The way that his name had slipped from her swollen lips, bruised from the force of their passion had driven him to insatiable heights.

Clark can't help but think that the past is repeating on him, only this time, he has lost a part of himself, the one part of his soul that can never be replaced. Chloe.

He would have been a brother today, a little brother or sister to share with the world, to share with Chloe, all the joys that now elude him. He thinks he'd liked to have been a sibling, strong, built to protect his family.

He considers Chloe his family, but he could not keep her from harm. His father had died at Clark's own hand. He's little more than a glaring disgrace.

He considers his options.

He could run again, find a sliver of red Kryptonite, strip himself of his inhibitions and live the debaucherous life, liberating himself with no obligation, indulging in acts of deception.

That's seems too straightforward for Clark, too simple. Accepting the truth is never simple.

Black Kryptonite, now that presents a challenge, something more than average, the ultimate measure of a man, or two as the case may be.

Clark knows that he can potentially separate what remains of Kal-El. He can still feel it sometimes, Kal's brooding presence lingers. Clark knows that Jor-El would not accept imitation; he doubts that his biological father would sit idly by and accept his son's complete decimation.

He could extract the dark force and become his own man. Lay the blame for his atrocities squarely upon the shoulders of Kal-El, and go into hiding. He could set himself up, anywhere in the world, new name, and new persona.

Clark sighs. He's so tired. He thinks about Chloe and the fact that once again he has managed to make such a mess of their relationship. He hates himself. He made the mistake of looking too far ahead. He should have been looking in front of his face; he should have his father around, his guiding hand.

The oscillating hum of nimble footsteps treading upon the creaky staircase catches Clark by surprise.

_Lois._

He should have guessed she'd be around sooner or later. He'd much prefer later.

When she reaches the top of the woodwork, Lois is seemingly calm. She feigns a smile and looks around before she takes a hesitant step towards him. She clears her throat, looking at Clark, her eyes are dark, and her emotions carry the weight of her expectations. She refuses to allow Clark to lead her astray. Lois opens her mouth.

"You and I are going to talk, Smallville. For first, for the love of," She points her finger at him, "For the love of whatever, put a shirt on."

Clark swallows. He's feeling flustered and uncomfortable, and rather suddenly comforted with the knowledge that he is invulnerable.

Lois folds her arms and taps her foot, and as if he can read her mind, Clark gets the hint. Time is a wasting. She watches as he wraps himself up in the obnoxious red flannel, looking like he'd vomited up a flamboyant plaid rainbow.

She doesn't bother stifling her snigger.

"You know," She speaks with conviction, "Just because you choose to be an exhibitionist, doesn't mean that my little cousin does."

Translation – game on.

"Lois, it's not what you think."

"I think it is," She protests. "I think you took advantage of Chloe, got yourself off and then left her for broke."

Clark can hardly deny it; the honest-to-God truth is practically scribed across each of his prominent features. He calls attention to himself.

"It's none of your business, Lois."

Clark can't fault Lois for her fierce sense of loyalty; he doesn't expect anything less than judgment, whatever Lois' ego can manage. At least one of them has concerns for Chloe's well-being. He thought he had.

"Doesn't really matter what I think, Smallville. What matters is Chloe's opinion, and right now, I don't think much of that. How could you do it, Clark? Chloe is ... she's about the closest thing I have to a sister. How dare you hurt her? Do you ever think before you act?"

"Chloe and I are consenting adults."

"Stop acting like a child then."

_A child._

Time abates, no yesterday, no tomorrow, and for the first time in his life, Clark conjures the image of Chloe round and full, swollen with new life, rising against the adversary with a belly full of his progeny.

And then she screams, and a son is ripped from her womb and the air becomes malignant and Clark can't breathe as he grapples with the snag caught up in his throat.

It is choice that determines his destiny.

Clark grits his teeth and speaks through his clenched jaw, his tone saturated with drippings of malice; rage so thick that Lois can smell the spirited vengefulness.

"I fucked her. I fucked her and it was the biggest mistake of him life." _Because I hurt her, I disappointed her and she feels betrayed. She'll never forgive me and I hate myself for that. _He doesn't add.

Lois smiles. "Ever heard of a moon shot, Kent? Because I have a particularly nice lumber back at my apartment and I'm more than happy to enlighten you with it."

The irony of her words is not lost on Clark. Besides, he's always been more of a football kind of man.

"You come up against the barrel of my weapon and your pretty little face will greet my swinging style. Consider this your warning. Come near Chloe again and I'll beat you black and blue."

If she actually stood a chance, Lois might do a half decent job on him.

"I'm not surprised," He snarls, bearing his back teeth just like Kal would. "You have no morals. Sleep your way to success, isn't that your motto, Lois?"

"I feel sorry for Misers K. You're just some big, dumb kind of alien," Lois points her finger at him accusingly. "And you're just going to ... alien ... ise all of us." She stutters.

She's right. He is alien, to all of them, from the wrong side of the tracks so to speak, even estranged from himself. His acts and their consequences have become his master, whom he obeys, whom he may even worship. He lives in a state of fear, no longer capable of the joys of wonderment.

Lois has turned her back on him now, and he's ready for whatever is coming. He watches her retreat and knows that he has lost Chloe, and he falls to his knees in the spot where he stands and he wonders if he can survive without a reason.

He can't. He can't leave Chloe alone; he can't be separated from her. He craves absolution.

There's only one person left, the one he has relied on for as long as his memory has served him, who has loved him without slight, without fear or repression.

Clark knows that his mother has experienced loss in her lifetime, the kind of loss that turns your world around, the kind of loss that dies inside of you even though you're still living.

Though another had birthed him, Martha Kent has given him life. And for that, he owes her.

But first, he just needs to feel sorry for himself, to stoke the flame a little more, and chase his tail until he realizes that it's really not going to aide his chorus.

Clark needs his father.

* * *

The cemetery is cold; the stench of death is in the air, timid souls watch for miles and Clark's boots crunch up the leaf rot that decays beneath his heavy feet.

He keeps his head bowed; his hands are pushed into his pockets as he stalks the familiar path, even in death, these people deserve respect.

Clark is not scared of a lot, but the thought of death is enough to make his skin crawl and his insides churn. The atmosphere is dank, though quiet, concealing secrets and whispers that startle his wonder.

The wind wafts through the trees, and Clark likes to think that his father is greeting him, welcoming him with acceptance.

As Clark approaches his father's plot, a familiar voice tugs at his heart-string.

"Tough gig, Kid?"

"Dad?"

Jonathan Kent smiles at his son, the corners of his wise eyes crinkling as one corner of his mouth turns into a lopsided smirk.

"Yes Son, it's me."

Clark stares, confused for a moment.

"I'm just an apparition, Clark. My spirit is here to guide you, to help you fulfil your destiny."

Clark nods. "It's good to see you, Dad."

"So," His father begins, that had always been his way, straight onto business lest something ail you. "Why the long face?"

"I made a mistake." Clark keeps his sentence clipped and simple.

"We all make mistakes, Son. But the true measure of a man is he who can face his troubles with courage."

Clark's body stiffens at his father's words. There's no sanctity for his neglect. He's pretty sure not even the grace of the Holy Father can save his thick skin now.

"I hurt Chloe." Clark mumbles, not yet willing to make eye contact with the figure that is seated upon his late father's headstone.

"She means a lot to you."

It's not a question, and Clark shrugs.

"I was so stupid," Clark sighs, the tip of his boot nudging the freshly turned soil at his feet. "I was supposed to take care of her, I practically forced her to have sex with me, and I didn't protect her, I ... I was so stupid."

"Do you really think Chloe Sullivan needs your protection, Son?"

Clark shoots his father a glare that dares the man to defy his son.

"I'm pretty sure she didn't want me to crush her to death. She might have liked to experience our first time," Clark coughs, clearing his throat, his cheeks flushing, "Um, our first time with her internal organs intact. I don't think she really wants to be saddled with a half ... with a child," He says.

"Chloe is okay, Clark. She put her trust in you like so many others would never dare. I have watched her love you from afar, day after day, pining for your love. The only person blind enough not to realize was you. Chloe is a fine young woman, Clark. She will forgive you."

Clark rubs his thick hand across the expanse of his face and inhales deeply.

"I said I was stupid."

"Do you think that it will herald the arrival of the apocalypse on the off chance that she did conceive your child?"

Clark shakes his head and looks up at his father.

"Lois is right, I'm just an alien, it doesn't matter what I call myself, Intergalactic Traveler, who am I trying to fool?"

"You've lost your way, Son. Don't you think it's time you tried to find Clark Kent again? The real Clark Kent, the one that I know and love."

Clark looks towards the sky, rainclouds are beginning to gather and it's just like art imitating life.

"I'm not sure Clark exists anymore. I know that Clark would never hurt Chloe, but he did."

"You're a smart boy, Clark. I know you will find that place where you belong, I just know it. And," His father adds just to sweeten the deal, "You won't have to do it alone. Together, we will find your purpose."


	6. Rhythm Of The Night

**I don't own them. I just share.**

**I apologise for the delay, I have been quite unwell. **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

"How are you feeling?" Lois asks as she kicks the door to the apartment behind her with the heel of her boot. Her hands are both indisposed as she cradles two steaming Styrofoam mugs and juggles the lot with astounding precision.

Chloe turns her head, her arms crossed across her chest as she glances mutely at the TV screen, the incessant monologue having caught her attention. She offers Lois a hesitant smile.

"I'm fine."

Lois rolls her eyes and sets the hot coffee upon the small timber table that sits at Chloe's feet while she makes short work of extracting her arms from her faux leather jacket.

"So, it's been one of those days, huh? Did you manage a shower?"

Chloe burrows back into the warmth of the recliner and once more, refocuses her attention as she contemplates the documentary that is currently being presented for the marvels of her viewing pleasure.

"I didn't know that you were into snails. That's a bit boring, isn't it? Seems to me like Smallville would be interested in something so ... Dull."

The sentence rolls from Lois' tongue as she spits the words to that form the brunt of her coherent thought, the venom of amazing bitterness, of black resentment and impotent rage.

"Gastropods," Chloe whispers as she picks relentlessly at the quick in the corner of her thumb nail.

"Chloe, it's been two weeks," Lois sighs as she takes up her position in the seat to the right of her cousin. "You really need to speak to Clark."

Chloe shakes her head, her eyes closed tightly against the light of day. At the moment, it seems to be the ultimate act of defiance.

"My head, it pounds, like footsteps, it's so loud," Chloe says. "Advil doesn't seem to help. I can't make it stop. What's wrong with me, Lois?" She asks as she turns to the woman beside her, desperately seeking some measure of solace.

"Maybe it's a tumor?"

"Lois, it's not a tumor."

"But ..."

"Not. A tumor," Chloe repeats for the sake of her cousin.

Lois watches as Chloe rubs her eyes and yawns. She pinches the bridge of her nose and she seems fatigued, more so than is usual for Chloe.

"Maybe you're coming down with something, you are a little pale."

Lois takes Chloe's wrist between her fingers and runs her thumb across the surface of her trembling palm and then shrugs.

"Maybe Clark can help us figure out what's wrong with you."

"Lois, for the last time, just let it go. If Clark wants to speak to me he has my number."

Lois presents her hands in a defensive manner, offering up her own white flag.

"Okay, I get it. Smallville is a sore point."

"Clark and I are complicated. We've always been complicated. And he doesn't need this, not after losing his dad."

Lois is floored by the conviction in Chloe's words, the tone in her voice, the way that her intonation creeps a little when she's trying to defend Clark. Her capacity for loyalty is rare, and even though the foundation for their relationship remains unbalanced, Chloe still makes allowances for his _human weaknesses._

"Why do you do it, Chloe? Why do you let him rule your life on his terms? Stand up for yourself, stop letting him take advantage of you."

Chloe reaches for the television remote on the arm of her chair. The on-off button feels heavy beneath the pad of her finger, and as the screen flickers and shades of gray, eventually, the darkness settles.

Chloe kicks back the foot rest and stands, purposely avoiding eye contact with Lois as she moves about the small living space, straightening magazines and fluffing over ripe cushions as she goes.

But Lois has to have the last word. Lois has to speak the loudest, like the casting vote that will establish the final decision.

"Chloe, I can't stand what he's done to you; you're just a shadow of who you used to be."

Chloe turns on her heel and laughs, and for a moment, Lois is speechless. The laughter bubbles up like madness.

"Do you want to know what the really sad part is, Lois?"

Chloe stands with a hand on her hip while the other sweeps her face and she shrugs her shoulders, placing a finger upon her lips as though she needs to think about the following statement.

"The sad thing is, that I'd beg him to do it again whether it killed me or not. I've always wanted Clark, what's the point in denying it. But the sex, the sex was so great that he could have killed me and I'd have been in heaven either way. Is that what you want to hear, Lois?"

"You selfish bitch. What about the rest of us?"

Again Chloe laughs, shaking her head, her matted hair falling across her face as she struggles to contain her frustration.

"What about you?" Chloe asks as if it's the most obvious thing on the face of the planet. "You want to have sex with Clark? Go for it, who am I to stop you?"

"Would you listen to yourself? Look at what he's done to you, Chlo. Listen to what you're saying. I know how much you love Clark."

"Huh! Absence from those we love is self from self – a deadly banishment. I think Shakespeare himself said that, clever fellow. Think he also said that a wise man knows himself to be a fool. Catch my drift?"

Lois just stares. Chloe has always been the brain; she has always left Lois looking confused beyond belief.

"If you think I'm going to touch Clark, you're mad."

"Don't you get it," Chloe asks, pleading with Lois to understand. "It doesn't really matter anymore. What's done is done."

Lois is quiet as she inhales and exhales. The look on Chloe's face is enough to spur her into action, the desperation in her voice. Lois remembers a time when the two were just kids. She'd have done anything to protect her little cousin's reputation. They were inseparable, like sisters.

"I just remembered that I need to go out for a bit. I think you should have a nap, you'll feel better when you wake up." Lois takes a step towards Chloe, her arm extended, her hand settles upon her shoulder and she smiles.

"Okay," Chloe relents, having lost the will to fight.

"I love you, Chloe Sullivan," Says Lois. "Never forget who you are."

* * *

Chloe wakes to a lack of light, her room shrouded in shades of ebony. She stretches as she pushes herself into a sitting position against the headboard. The sheet that was so elegantly draped across her breasts falls to her waist, the tank that she wears is pulled taught across the expanse of her midsection and the tiniest sliver of skin is exposed.

In the corner of the room, just by the door, a figure smirks, his teeth, a startling contrast against the inky backdrop.

"Who's there?" Chloe asks as she retrieves the sheet and tries to make herself as tiny as possible, drawing her knees up to her chin.

Not wanting to startle her, the curious visitor steps out of the shadows.

"Clark," Chloe gasps. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to see you," He answers, his hand reaching out to touch her.

Chloe shies away from his grasp and flinches when the muscles in his face shift and Clark frowns.

"I'm sorry," She says sincerely, hoping that he will accept her half assed explanation. "I'm still half asleep. It was a shock."

Clark takes a step back from the bed and stuffs his large hands into his pockets.

"I had to see you; I had to make sure that you were okay."

The truth is that he'd tried to ignore it; he'd tried so hard to ignore the rhythm, the tempo that was drawing him to her. Like music, creating order amongst the chaos, his soul had danced and in the end, he had no choice but to follow like the rolling tides.

He'd watched, while she slept, scanned her body for trace and he'd found his preservation all too soon.

Like a protector, it had beckoned his company.

"I'm not sure if I can talk to you right now, Clark."

Clark balls his hands into fists and stamps down his anger, the rage that he inflicts upon himself. This is his fault, he's the reason she doesn't trust him. If he was in her shoes, he'd do the same thing.

"We don't have to talk. I just had to come and see for myself. I'm sorry I scared you, Chloe."

Chloe sighs; feeling like the last of her energy has been sapped. She can no longer hold onto the pain. This is Clark, her one and only. She can't afford another hundred days of sorrow, she has to be brave.

Clark has always been the epitome of brave in Chloe's eyes, risking everything worth fighting for. So she swallows her pride, wanting to be free.

"You didn't hurt me," She says, her voice shaky, still filled with the remnants of restless slumber. "I'm fine, Clark."

Clark shakes his head, the guilt gnawing at him, his impulses so powerful, it's hard to restrain the need, the memory of his primitive actions.

"You're not okay. How can you say that? How can you tell me that you're alright when nothing will ever be the same again?"

"Clark," Chloe shifts the blanket that has fallen at the foot of the bed and untangles herself so that she can rise to her knees. "Clark, I'm okay. Look at me; I know you can see me better than I can see you."

"No, I can't. I can't look at you."

Clark turns his back and heads towards the door, his heavy boots echoing with each step he takes.

"Clark, please." Chloe rises to her feet and steps closer to her best friend.

"I can't look at you when all I see is how I've ruined your life, Chloe. I can't look at you without knowing that you're pregnant and it's all my fault."

Clark hangs his head; his hand grips the door knob and his shoulders slump, defeated.

"What?" Chloe asks, her brow furrowed as she looks to Clark for answers. "What are you talking about, Clark?"

Clark points to his temple with one long, thick finger.

"It started up here, like my brain was keeping a tally of some kind, a random pattern of useless numbers. I had no idea what it meant at first. I think that was because my ears were too sensitive to pick up the motion. It was too early."

Chloe's heart is in her throat and she tries in vain to swallow the lump that is stuck in her throat, but all she can manage is a blink, her eyes squinting as they adjust to the darkness.

"It's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Chlo."

Chloe's hand moves to her abdomen and she manages to find her voice.

"That's what the pounding is, in my head. It's like," She struggles for words to explain the phenomenon. "It's like a really bad migraine, like when you get a tune stuck in your head and it won't go away, so you sing and you sing until you get sick of it."

Clark nods. This is worse that he thought.

He clenches his eyes closed, and then opens them as he takes his hand off the door knob and faces Chloe.

She reaches behind him and flips the light switch, her eyes coming to rest on Clark's face, the tear tracks that mar his perfect features.

"I'm sorry," He says. "I think, well, from what I can gather, the sun has caused your," He points to her abdomen, "Has caused the embryo to multiply rapidly. I think your gestation period will be significantly shorter than that of a human's. "Jor-El thinks that ..."

"Wait," Chloe speaks out of turn, "You spoke to Jor-El, you actually told him about this?" Chloe is nervous. "How could you do that? I mean, why would you do that to me?"

"He's the only person who can help us, Chloe. It's not like my mother knows much about Kryptonian biology."

"Fine, fine," Chloe mulls over his words, instinctively, she knows that he is right. "What did he say?"

Clark takes a breath before he continues.

"He said that this may have happened before, he can't be sure. Any other _case_," Clark stutters, "Like ours, would have happened millennia ago. There was talk, but nothing was documented."

Chloe sits on the end of the bed, her hands are in her lap and she's trying to scope out a positive, from any angle. Clark kneels before her, taking her hand, he holds it between his own and lets out a breath when she doesn't object.

"I won't let anything happen to you, do you believe me?"

Chloe nods.

"You come before this baby, Chlo. Always you."

"Clark," Chloe tries to argue, "Clark, no. This is ..."

Clark's eyes smolder to a deep, rich green-blue color, hues of azure twinkle as his gaze intensifies. He places his hand beneath her chin and lifts her face to meet his.

"I can't deny that I want this child, a part of you, the only other child of Krypton, but I won't lose you. You mean more to me than you know, Chloe."

She wonders why he won't say the words.

"I know, I know. We'll be okay, Clark."

His back stiffens at her words; there is no way they can know for sure.

Chloe smiles and lowers their hands, still joined together, the two of them touching her still flat tummy.

Clark looks from her his hand to her face, his eyes conveying the silent declaration. He looks so lost, so helpless, he needs her right now.

"We'll be okay Clark, I know that we will because I love you, I trust _you_, Clark."


	7. Identity Crisis

**I don't own them.**

**Last update I did not receive any reviews, so I am hesitant to post this update. It's short, but to the point.**

* * *

_You hail from the house of El, My son. Why do you dare to defy your destiny? _

Clark wakes suddenly from a restless slumber, his lanky frame sitting upright in the lumpy bed. The night has passed, but outside the world is still dark.

He's living for something he can no longer define. The misery rouses his consciousness while the shame simply lingers.

His one-time father's words ring in his ears, unlike shadows fade, the idioms remain.

He has to decide, whether he'll toss the utterance aside, or be content just to stay where he is, trade his heritage for safe harbor, or face the inevitable. Opportunity knocks but once.

Jor-El speaks of great power. Where he comes from, success is measured by ones accomplishments, the success of their proficiency, the courage you maintain, even in the face of your enemy and the opposition you have encountered.

Clark cradles his head in the palm of his hand. He has been driven to his knees before, the memory of his time in Metropolis, agonizing, the untold story inside of him.

Anything, anything would be better than the pain that gnaws in his gut, his suffering, the sorrow, the inspiration for his survival. His sanity is slipping and he finds himself in the grip of insipid madness from which he is not exempt. And while his mind screams, through it all, his heart reminds demands that he do the impossible, preserve his progeny, defend his love, Chloe, his family, an unborn son or daughter.

Many things change over the span of a lifetime, but Clark knows that you start and finish with family.

He clenches his fist in a fit of rage. The artificial intelligence expects him to abandon his responsibilities here on earth to pursue his Kryptonian calling.

"Clark," He calls out to the dawn. "My name is Clark Kent, I am not Kal-El. Why are you doing this to me?"

_The time will come to pass, my Son._

"No," Clark shakes his head defiantly. "No."

_The one known to me as Chloe Sullivan, she disrupts your course. This shall no longer be the case. Your destiny is calling._

"No," Clark grips his chest, the pain, like white-hot searing that burns a hole in his armor as the eternal hourglass is turned yet again. His teeth gnash and he curses. The affliction distorts his reality and his vision is clouded as his body crumples and his eyes roll back. He is engulfed with a freeze frame of images.

_Chloe Sullivan, fourteen years old, together in the old loft, on the front porch. His savior, his soul mate. His first kiss, wrapped up in a package so infinitely perfect, so unique. High school and graduation. The curious sensation of making love to the woman he loves and the beat of his heart, beneath her skin._

_A young boy with eyes of green, his dark hair shines in the splendor of the midday sun. He laughs and he cries, he takes his first steps. He wears his father's face; he has inherited his mother's brilliance. He squeals, Clark smiles. _

_Fire, so radiant, it burns like wildfire. Flames that lick, that destroy with a flash and a spark. Clark watches his family burn. His son cries and screams, not yet invulnerable, his human qualities denying him his destiny. Chloe holds their child as they are ravished, her can hear her humming a lullaby. Even in the face of death she is steadfast until the end._

_Clark can't move his feet, he is frozen in time, suspended in lights. Like dead weight, he watches helplessly, struggling against his trappings, he tries in vain to rescue them time and time again. And then a part of him dies right along with them and a cold rain turns his heart cold as it extinguishes the blaze. _

"No," Clark's sentiment echoes that of his son's.

"Clark," His mother tries to shake him from his blind torment. "Sweetheart, it's me, it's Mom. Clark, wake up."

Something in Martha's voice catches and Clark stirs in his mother's arms, his eyes wide, his body shaking, despite his threshold for physical suffering.

"He's going to do it," Clark says. He's going to take them. Mom, you have to help me."

Clark has never been so utterly desperate and afraid before. His voice is hoarse, his throat is dry and he pleads with his mother, the look in his eyes reminding her of her husband's last moments, as he struggled in Clark's arms, the shock on his face, and the surrender in his voice.

"Honey, you have to calm down. Look at you, you're shaking, Clark."

"Jor-El. He's going to take them."

"Who? Who is he going to take?"

"Chloe, the baby," Clark mutters, trying to break free of his mother's embrace without subjecting her to inadvertent injury. He has to be with her right now, she needs him. He has to protect her, protect Chloe at all costs.

"Chloe is pregnant?"

The question leaves Martha flabbergasted, Chloe Sullivan, pregnant? Surely not. She has a plan, a real shot at a future beyond the drudgery of the rigors of Smallville.

"They're in danger," Clark shouts and watches as his mother winces, her eyes pleading with her son to calm down.

"Clark, Honey. It's going to be okay, Chloe can take care of herself. You know Chloe."

Clark inhales deeply, a ragged breath that seems to work and he slows long enough to give him mother the short of it.

"Mom, Chloe is pregnant. The baby, my baby, they're in danger. Jor-El …"

"Oh, Clark." Martha speaks over her son, her heart heavy with the knowledge that Chloe could quite possibly be in potential danger. She herself has experienced the heartache of loss at the hands of Clark's biological father. Perhaps indirectly, but the consequences had still been the same. She won't let this prophecy come to pass; she will not let her son be reduced to nothing more than a shell of his former glory.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I know that this hits close to home, I know," Clark swallows thickly; he can't even bear to look her in the eyes. "I know how much you wanted to have the baby."

"I did," She replies, her lips thin, a sad smile upon her face as she dwells upon the what-ifs and resolves not to fail her son, the one, the only person who matters. "But you are my son, and it is my duty to take care of you. We are going to make sure that Chloe and the baby are okay. Do you hear me?"

"I've hurt her so much already," Clark says dejectedly, turning his face to his bare hands, his eyes cast down. Too ashamed to open his eyes and acknowledge this reality, he hides his disgrace, the sin etched upon his sodden features. "I have to help her. I love her," He says simply, and both Clark and his mother are pleasantly surprised by the ease with which his confession is absolved.

"Chloe is a very special woman," His mother soothes, trying to comfort her son. "I have watched your friendship develop for years. The way you delighted in her presence, even when you were still unaware of the feelings you held for her. You have always loved Chloe."

"Mom, I've been so stupid. How will she ever forgive me?"

* * *

Clark leans his bulky frame up against the old post fence that runs adjacent to the small district cemetery just off the fold of Hickory Lane. His shoulders slump against the weathered timber, where any other man would be weary of the consequences.

"So, you're going to be a father?"

Jonathan Kent is perched on the aged lumber column alongside his son. His dirty blond fringe wafts with the breeze and the lines on his forehead bend and bow and he furrows his brow, waiting for Clark to answer his question.

"If Chloe makes it to term, but we don't know what's going to happen. It's not like we have sat down and discussed the details, Dad."

"Maybe you should talk to her. God has given you a great gift, Son."

Clark scoffs and rubs the back of his neck. His top button is unfastened and the collar of his stiff, plaid shirt is turned up to the heavens; it tickles his fingers and reminds him that even in great pain, there is joy.

"Jor-El said that I was born to be a hero, a legend among men. He told me that my destiny is a gift, that I should be proud of who I am, what I am," He adds mournfully.

"That's quite a lot of responsibility for such a young man. But your mother and I raised you to be strong. You're not the kind to walk away from a challenge, Clark Kent."

"Sometimes I can feel him, Dad," Clark explains to his father, shifting his weight so that he can turn to look the man in the eyes. "Kal-El. He's a part of me, no matter what control I have. He will always be a part of me."

Jonathan watches his son, the boy that he had raised as a small child. Not his by blood, but by bond alone.

"He has your DNA; he is your inner demon, but he is not who makes you what you are. You have to let go of Kal, Clark. The information encoded in your genes, that is only half of whom you truly are. Sure, it determines biological characteristics, but the skills you have acquired, the values you have learnt from those around you, those attributes are what make you the man."

Clark fiddles with the button on the cuff of his sleeve, tugging the obsolete clasp as a lame distraction from his father's words. Right now he can't bring himself to contemplate the possibilities. He's miserable, and he needs to wallow.

"You reap what you sow you know."

That had always been the quote that brought Clark the most hope in life, the most favored of his father's sayings. Though it had not always come to fruition, certainly not for the farm, they had still managed to survive with sheer luck and good will and Clark draws strength from his father's foresight. Patience is necessary. One cannot reap immediately where one has sown.

"I'm going to save Chloe," He says matter of factly, as though he bears witness to an epiphany.

His father smiles, all he had to do was plant the seed, and with a little nurturing, his son will take up his own cause, for himself, for his soul, for the future that rests in the womb of his beloved. Clark will devote himself with great enthusiasm, an excellent example of being human.

"I have faith in you, Son. If anybody can do it, it's you."


End file.
